Turning off the faucet, you breathe a deep sigh of relief. At least you can't smell yourself anymore, you think, you fucking reeked. You had to wash your greasy hair twice, and it was so long it took a lot of shampoo. Although you remember most of your life before, you can't seem to remember what you used to look like -- it bothers you a lot. For now, you wring out your thinning hair above the drain and tuck it behind your ears. When you were a teenager, when you were a teenager the FIRST time, you remember growing up in the 90s and liking Kurt Cobain and Nirvana. He used to wear his hair like that. Feeling brave, you wipe away the steam on the vanity, a smear of reflection now visible. You climb out of the shower and take a look at yourself in the mirror.
Your round face, framed by several extra chins, stares back at you. You're too short to see past your collarbone (or at least where it should be if you could see it through the fat), and your hair disappears outside of the frame of the mirror, stringy dark strands resting near your sunken nipples. What you see isn't good, but if you're going to be stuck like this for a day, you might as well try to make a bad situation a little better. Rummaging through the cupboard, you don't find much that you imagine belongs to Marty. You do find a shaving kit that probably belongs to his dad, though, and get to work. You lather up your face and neck with some shaving cream. Allowing yourself to recall the familiar motions from your previous life, you move your fattened hands across your face, pulling hundreds of little hairs off with the sharp blade. You're embarrassed when you realise you have to hold up the fat on your neck to get inside some of the crevices. But bit by bit, you remove all the hairs on your face, only leaving a little sideburn. You even go far enough down your neck so that what was once a connected highway between your chest hair and neck hair is now two separate islands. Your swirls of chest hair (and shoulder hair, you remember with a shudder) should be covered by clothes, so you leave those. Your practiced motions only resulted in a couple nicks, and you put tiny scraps of tissue on the cuts. The blood soaks in instantly, sticking the thin paper to your face.
You push your hair around a bit, deciding to push the "bangs" back on your head. You can't really remember what your old job was, either, but you're pretty sure you weren't a hairdresser. Oh well, its not like you can make it look much worse. Using beard-trimming scissors, you chop away at the length, leaving it just above your shoulders. The attempt looks messy to be sure, but it's a temporary fix, and you already feel a little better. The choppy cut looks better than the untended mess, left to grow wild like weeds. You've moved up from a 1/10 to a solid 2/10. Maybe even 2 and a half if you have something decent to wear. Wrapping a towel around your frame, you walk nervously around the upstairs hallway, trying to find your bedroom. There's no way you're putting on the stinking, stained rags you were just wearing. You don't even want to think about how long they've been steeping in Marty's odors.
Unfortunately, once you find Marty's room, it's pretty clear that the "stinking" part is something you're going to have to deal with. The whole space reeks, and your nose, which was just enjoying the scent of clean water and shampoo, is now overwhelmed with BO, rotting food, and even hints of piss. You hold your nose, the towel dropping to the floor, and dig through Marty's disaster of a closet. You manage to find an unopened package of briefs, a little tight (but at least clean), and put them on straight away. Your short body jiggles as you try to contain your fat within the elastic waist. You find a plain black t-shirt, only mildly odorous, and khakis that still have the tag on them. The shirt and pants don't do much to flatter your form, hanging baggy and loose on your wide body, but then, what clothes would look GOOD on you? You finish the look with a Christmas sweater, even though it's almost summer. Accessing the foggy bits of Marty's memories floating in your head, you seem to remember it being gifted by some well-meaning relative and instantly forgotten. At least it looks clean and doesn't have animated breasts or confusing sayings on it.
When you head back down to the basement, you find that...